Gentle Voice

Saturday, January 21, 2012

When Butterflies Melt

Its another routine flash in the pan as I exit with a head full of suffocated memories from the dark dungeons of the subconscious mind... and that obligatory sleep. What were those dreams? Were they even dreams? Am I awake this moment? Who was it? What was it? Lao Tzu had the same conundrum some thousands of years ago, so I know its not an ordinary dilemma. "Was it a butterfly dreaming it was me or was it me dreaming I was a butterfly?" He asked and pondered.

The good old sage simply worded what has been the state of things, as it were. I've been thinking, who really cares and what really is the point? Whether it was a shitfly hovering over a fresh dump or a fresh hot dump steaming and thinking vice versa what really doth it matter? Another day of gravitas will keep me grounded no matter how levitational I feel. Another day of wagging tongues and gossiping gupshup will keep my ears titillated no matter how detached I dain to be. Another day of money and the mullah and god and the allah will keep me material no matter how immaterial I hope to be. Another day of revolt and revolution; suckers and sychophanths will keep me righteous no matter how deranged I've become.

And that's that. A walnut can't pretend to be a rose, and I'm no walnut either. What feels right must be left; the ego must stay and be dealt with. The country must be detached, together with conventional wisdom that binds and ties you to family and the like... to dissolve into the ocean of suffering and death like eons and eons of souls that were sold out to that fear and paid the ultimate price- of living a negotiated life.

Call everything by their true names and should you not know their names, ask them. Should they be out of earshot, give them a wave... but know not knowing their names is not a crime. A rose by any other name is still a rose but knowing that fact, you possibly could not call it an ass.

Buddhas still walk among us... just as contended beggars still lie drunk asleep at the doors of the miserable rich men. Everything is fvckin relative... and should that be the case, question everything your gut is not content with. Nobody has a monopoly on love, theft or life... the interpretations are open. Its in the way we go about our insanity that makes us sane... for in the end, as this bard said, "We are all trying to kill time in some way or another, but when all is said and done, time ends up killing us."

Now go ahead and wake up and for this day, for just this moment in time, like another comedian accentuated, "Be a Man! Do the Right Thing"... Whatever That Is...